


Cheetos

by xazliin



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Female Jack, POV Second Person, Ray-centric, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 20:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8259554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xazliin/pseuds/xazliin
Summary: You’ll learn. Everyone does eventually. Around here bullets sparkle along with the city lights.* * *Ray before the crew.





	

                It smells like expired air freshener and cool ranch Doritos. That’s probably a sign of hitting rock bottom. At least the air freshener masks the months’ worth of Red Bull cans stashed in the glove box. Whatever that’s supposed to smell like.

                That guy finally payed you back a couple days ago and the result, a black sniper rifle, is burning a hole through your passenger seat. In all honesty it was an impulse purchase. You’ve still got no idea what to do with it. The possibilities are endless in Los Santos though. Now that you’ve got the ammunition, anything is possible. But your hands still shake when you pull it into your hands and your finger trembles at the thought of taking off the safety.

                You’ll learn. Everyone does eventually. Around here bullets sparkle along with the city lights.

                Another nervous glance in the rear view mirror shows you’re still alone. You spare another just in case. The last time you did this you spent days scrubbing blood out of the trunk. Hell, it was the reason you got that air freshener in the first place. Maybe this time you’ll get enough to afford an apartment.

                Ha.

                Probably not. You _might_ be able to work something out with Michael. With how he acts you’d assume he only lives in his apartment one night a year.

                A shadow flickering in your peripheral catches your attention. Your breath stops in your throat and you stiffly reach to turn the Journey song on the radio down. ‘This could be it,’ you think before realizing ‘it’ could be any moment of any day.

                The man emerges with sleeves of tattoos and an all too fake looking moustache. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the outline of a gun in his pocket. There’s barely enough time for you to grab your wallet before the guy is standing outside the driver’s side window. He grins at you. A smile wide and charming enough to be as authentic looking as his moustache. The barrel of the gun taps against the window as his smile somehow widens. He mouths the words ‘get out’ and you’d start laughing if he wasn’t pointing a gun in your face. Like shit you’d leave this car behind.

                You raise your eyebrow and go to lock the doors. His mouth twitches down before returning to the smile. A shiver of fear races down your spine. You don’t want to die. And even if he doesn’t kill you you’re as good as dead if he gets away with your rifle. Not to mention the corpse in the trunk.

                “Look, dude,” you begin. Your voice might be muffled through the glass, but you don’t care. “If you think you’re getting this car yo—”

                The window shatters. It doesn’t matter if the guy could hear you or not because _there’s a fucking bullet—oh my god he actually shot the window_. That’s the only incentive you need to book it out of there with nothing, but a five dollar bill and a pocket knife on you. No rifle. No corpse. As your feet slap against the pavement and your lungs sting you know with every fibre of your being that you are royally screwed.

                It’s the first time you meet Geoff Ramsey. And it’s certainly not the last.

 

* * *

 

 

                It’s five months later and you’re not doing much better than before. Sure you’ve upgraded from sleeping in a car to seedy motels, and a particularly lucky poker game won you another (unfortunately pink) rifle, but other than that? Nada. You’re living job to job with barely enough money to pay for your stay at wherever wins the Shady-Motel-Of-The-Week-Sweepstakes. Michael’s even managed to drop off the map somehow. The last you’d heard from him was last July when he sent you a quick message about some new job. To top it off you never tracked down your old car and the chick who hired you is still biting at your heels with a shotgun.

                In short: life’s pretty shit.

                You try your best not to, but you’ve started missing home. Lying awake at night to the sound of gunfire tends to let a mind wonder whether it was really worth it.

                There’s this new guy making a name for himself. He calls himself the Vagabond. It’s kind of eerie how little everybody knows about him. Rumour has it he’s been doing a lot of jobs for Ramsey—the douche who stole your car. He probably used _your_ money to pay for the hits. Asshole.

                You’re starting to develop a little bit of a reputation too. Los Santos is a place where names are important and since you adopted BrownMan there’s been more business. As soon as you got over the shakiness it turned out you were a decent shot. Not great, but decent.

                The air stills around you as you grip the trigger. Everything outside the hit fades out of existence. All there is is you and the gun. The hit is a politician. It’s the biggest opportunity you’ve gotten in months. The dude’s got a family. A wife and three?—two?—kids. He really should’ve reconsidered vacationing in Los Santos, you think.

                He walks into your line of sight and a second later he’s crumpled on the ground, your bullet lodged somewhere in his neck. Blood’s bubbling out of his mouth and spilling onto the carpet as you fly another bullet into his chest.

                The job’s done. You’ll actually get payed tomorrow.

                You swiftly collect your supplies—rifle, Red Bull, extra ammo, backup pistol—and start to descend the fire escape. It’s one of the best days you’ve had in a while. The stairs creak under your weight. They probably aren’t used much aside from the odd person on a smoke break. Your bag swings as you walk, nudging you uncomfortably in the shoulder every other step. You can’t help the smile that slowly stretches across your face.

                At the bottom of the staircase you turn into an alley. Not even the smell of sewer water and mold dampens your mood.

                A shoulder bumps against yours. “Watch it, dude,” you snarl to the mass of blonde hair standing ahead of you. The man turns to face you. His blue eyes pierce through you, scanning you, analyzing you. Both of you stand like that for a second. Your eyes narrowing at him while he stands there with the same unchanging look on his face. Stale air fills your nostrils and you’re the first to break eye contact.

                You mutter something along the lines of ‘creepy-ass motherfucker’ as you shake the meeting off. Whatever. It falls from your mind. Melting away with everything else aside from getting your paycheck.

 

* * *

 

 

                Three months later you don’t know why you keep trying to stay alive. Los Santos is a parasite that latches onto every person who lends it their soul and only let’s go in death. You can’t leave. You’re already too far in to go back. Maybe a year ago when people didn’t know your name, or what you’re okay with doing. Maybe when it wasn’t common knowledge who holds grudges against you. Maybe when even thinking about leaving the city didn’t mean the people you care about having a bullet in their head.

                You’re also high as shit so none of that matters right now.

                That guy with the blue eyes has been following you. You’re sure of it. He’s ‘coincidentally’ shown up right after two more of your jobs, _and_ you saw him trailing you one day while heading over to Michael’s old apartment. You aren’t sure what’s stopping the guy from killing you. He’s definitely got enough muscles to do it. You aren’t sure what’s stopping you from killing him either, but you’d rather not think about it right now.

                Michael wasn’t at his apartment by the way. Apparently he moved and didn’t tell you. Shows what a good friend he is—was.

                You’re back to living in a car. Turns out the motel life was too rich for your blood. This one smells more like weed than the last one. Weed and desperation. That should be a type of candle.

                The weed is making everything okay. You watch the cars drive outside your windshield. You watch the people walk back and forth and back and forth. Most of them don’t even care what goes on in this city. They have ordinary jobs being lawyers or accountants or whatever the hell normal people do.

                You watch the clouds go from one end of the sky to the other. You watch the sun slowly sink behind the tallest buildings and the streetlights start to shine brighter and brighter the closer night comes. Songs on the radio melt into each other and before you know it it’s three am. You don’t have any Cheetos left. Damn. You’ll have to go to a convenience store.

                With your wallet in your pocket you stroll out of your car. Closest to you is a 7/11 with flickering neon lights in the window. The cashier is a balding middle-aged man who frowns as soon as you walk in the door. He adjusts his glasses and scowls in your general direction. You roll your eyes and wander over to the drinks section. Another Red Bull never hurt anybody. The bell on the door jingles, temporarily interrupting the buzzing of ceiling lights. Should you get two or three bags of Cheetos? Fuck it. You tuck four bags under the arm holding the Red Bull. YOLO.

                “Put the money in the bag or I shoot.”

                Great. Of course this happens to you. You peek around the corner of the isle to see the back of a man holding a gun to the cashier. Beside the guy with the gun is a shorter woman with red hair tied in a ponytail. From where you stand you can see sweat shining on the cashier’s forehead.

                “Faster!” the man growled and he shifts on his feet. You catch a web of tattoos crawling up the arm holding the gun.

                The cashier looks up for a moment and you lock eyes with him. He freezes and before you can slink away the woman has already turned around. She points her own gun at you, startling you into dropping two of the Cheetos bags. “Don’t move,” she says.

                “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

                She smirks and glances over at the man, “We almost done, Geoff?”

                It’s him. The asshole who stole your car. You knew those tattoos looked familiar. The Asshole turns with a backpack in his hand and a smile playing at his lips. “Sure thing Jack.” The woman doesn’t lower her gun when the Asshole puts his arm around her shoulder. His beard has grown longer than when he took your car, but his moustache still looks annoyingly artificial.

                They’re about to leave, you can tell. They’re about to leave with the money and you unharmed. But because you’re you, you have to screw that up. “Hey asshole,” you announce. It’s probably too loud judging by the way to cashier winces. Or maybe he is just scared for his like.

                The Asshole does a 180 to look at you and the woman holds her gun straighter towards you. Ramsey raises his eyebrow. He looks entertained by your outburst, almost like you’ve just told a joke.

                “You stole my car. I’d like my shit back.” You must’ve been channeling your inner Michael, because you sounded way angrier than you are able to at the moment. You only hoped he couldn’t tell your enthusiasm was as real as his moustache.

                The woman narrows her eyes. Her hand tightens around her pistol. You brace yourself for the shot—it wouldn’t be the first time. Instead Geoff turns to whisper something in her ear. The woman’s shoulders stiffen, but Ramsey starts smiling. She nods towards you and you stand there astonished. They turn and skip out of the store, leaving you standing there wondering ‘What the fuck just happened?’

                It takes a moment to realize you’re still supposed to be angry at them. You throw the other bags of Cheetos and the Red Bull on the floor and run out into the streetlight-lit parking lot. Geoff and the woman are laughing and shoving at each other a ways from you. You huff and reach into your hoodie pocket. You grab the first thing you find—your only pocket knife—and throw it in their direction. The knife clatters on the pavement a few metres behind them. Geoff and the woman don’t even seem to notice it.

                Well shit.

                You turn around in defeat to go get your Cheetos. The cashier is nowhere to be seen and the sound of faraway sirens strains against your ears. Picking up the Cheetos and Red bull, you leave a five dollar bill on the counter (because you’re a nice person) and return back to your car.

 

* * *

 

 

                Two weeks later you hear from Michael. He leaves a voicemail on your newest phone while you’re out on a job. How he got the number for it you don’t know. What you do know is that he wants to meet with you in some creepy-ass alleyway on the other side of the city.

                This is Michael. You know he wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. But he hasn’t contacted you for nearly a year and you can’t help but be a little suspicious.

                Your footsteps echo off the brick walls almost encasing you. Michael steps out from under a shadow with a wave. “Yo,” you greet him.

                 “Hey.” Michael shuffles his hands into his pockets and nods to you. “It’s been a while.”

                “That’s an understatement.” You snort, “What the hell could’ve kept you so busy for so long? You get married or something?”

                Michael’s eyes scan the street outside of the alley before he answers. “I got a job.”

                “That’s not vague at all, Michael.” All passersby seem oblivious to their conversation. Most of those people don’t care about anything anyways.

                “Look,” Michael’s mouth settles into straight line. “I started working for Geoff Ramsey.” You open your mouth to say angrily say something—you aren’t sure what you’re going to say yet—before Michael interrupts you. “He’s a smart guy, Ray. And he’s not an idiot. He knows you’re BrownMan.”

                You stand there balling and unballing your fists. You have no idea what to say. If he knows you’re BrownMan why didn’t he kill you at that 7/11?

                “He…” Michael pauses and considers, “He wants to hire you. He’s trying to start a crew. You, me, a couple other guys.” He scratches the back of his neck, “He’s even trying to convince the Vagabond to join him—us.”

                You let out a breath, “Michael you know I work alo—”

                “Just consider it, okay?” Michael takes a couple steps towards you. “I know you Ray, you’re my best friend. You’re a much better shot than you think you are and soon more people are going to realize that.” He drops what looks like a business card into your hand and pats your shoulder. “Just consider it.” Michael walks out, leaving you standing alone in the alley.

 

                You consider it.

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all feedback/criticism is welcome :)


End file.
